


blood in the cut

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Tumblr Prompt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Requested by @dreamingunderafigtree with the prompt:"Every fucking day, I wish you're mine - every single goddamned day."I really just want a Sherlock who been pining after John for years and now he’s angrily confronting John about his feelings and I want to be SAD and I want there to be LONGING and LONELINESS and YEARNING (is that too specific? just do whatever you want you’re amazing)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	blood in the cut

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Blood in the Cut_ by **K. Flay**

The day Sherlock snapped started like any other. Waking up to a cold bed in a gloomy room, with the faint sounds of John puttering around the kitchen, he felt like sinking back under the blanket. Letting the day pass by, endless and excruciating, to avoid looking at John’s oblivious face.

Something clattered against the sink, followed by John’s surprised curse, and Sherlock sighed. Hauling himself out of bed, he wrapped a robe around his tall frame and walked out into the hall. “John?” he called, meandering through to the kitchen. John stood over the sink, hunched in a strange position, one hand cradling the other. Sherlock leaned around John’s curved back, peering to his cupped hands. 

Blood trickled from a deep cut on John’s palm, pooling in his other hand and dripping down the side. A knife lay in the sink, serrated edge turned red. Sherlock grabbed a handful of paper towels and reached out to press it to the cut. John continued to stare at the wound, a small frown creasing his brow. 

“John?” Sherlock repeated, waiting for John to look at him. 

“I need stitches,” John’s voice was strange, inflectionless, and Sherlock studied his face. 

Clearing his throat, he lifted the paper towel and looked underneath. “I can do it,” he offered, watching fresh blood well up in the cut. 

John looked up, surprised. “You know how?” 

Sherlock nodded, applying pressure to the cut again to staunch the flow. “Of course, John. I have many skills, as you know.” 

“All right.” 

Seated at the table, John’s hand on his knee, Sherlock cleaned, applied freezing, and began closing the wound with small, precise stitches. John watched in silence, eyes following the needle as it rose and fell. Once the cut was closed up, Sherlock set aside the equipment, John’s hand cradled in his own. They sat that way as the minutes stretched out until John began to shift in his chair. 

“Er, thanks,” he said, moving to pull his hand away. Sherlock shifted his grip, fingers locking around John’s wrist and holding him in place. John frowned at him. “Sherlock?” 

Looking down at John’s hand, Sherlock traced the curves of John’s palm with a fingertip. John fell silent, and Sherlock could feel his eyes on his bent head. "I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Sherlock spoke in a soft voice, barely above a whisper. When he didn’t elaborate, John shifted in his seat. 

“About what?” he asked, evident confusion in the question. 

Sherlock’s fingers drifted along the delicate veins of John’s wrist. “Holding your hand,” he murmured, eyes locked on the pale blue flow of blood under John’s skin. “I always wondered what it would feel like. Your fingers between mine, palms pressed together. Sometimes I imagined we might do it while walking somewhere. Maybe at a crime scene.” His shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. 

When he raised his head, John was staring, and Sherlock felt his own empty longing rise between them. John’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, fingers twitching reflexively in Sherlock’s grip. “Sherlock, I... I don’t...” his words trailed off, and he looked at the floor, face tense. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Sherlock released John’s hand, all but throwing it away from him and into John’s lap as he stood. “Don’t worry about it,” he snapped, arms stiff at his sides as he turned away. 

He heard John rise behind him, chair scraping against the floor. “Sherlock…” His tentative fingers brushed the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock hunched his shoulders against the contact. 

“Forget it, John.” He rejected the effort at bridge-building by stepping away, but John moved with him, calling his name again. 

“Sherlock?” 

Something snapped in Sherlock, and he spun on John with anger in his eyes, a bitter taste in his mouth. “Don’t _Sherlock_ me!” he snarled, advancing on John until he was backed against the sink. “You are the most oblivious, frustrating, _obtuse_ man I have ever known.” His hands gripped the counter on either side of John, trapping him between his arms. “Every fucking day, I wish you’re mine— _every single goddamn day_.” 

John stared at him, eyes wide and shocked. Sherlock met his gaze, unwavering until John’s silence began to drive something sharp and burning under his skin. Turning away, robe billowing around his tense body, Sherlock stalked out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. The door slammed behind him, leaving him safe in his sanctuary as he turned the lock. He dropped onto the bed and glared at the ceiling, his chest tight. 

A soft knock against the door made him scowl as it was followed by a quiet voice, “Sherlock?” Sherlock closed his eyes, tangling his fingers in the sheets. He didn’t answer. “Sherlock, can I come in?” The knob rattled, and John made a low, frustrated noise. “Come on, Sherlock. Open the door.”

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow and didn’t answer. 


End file.
